In Washington State, August is blackberry month. The lanes and hillsides are thick with lush, green bushes heavy with dark, juicy blackberries. For many years the Wrights have trekked to Grandpa and Grandma's house near Bremerton, Washington to visit. Each visit always included picking blackberries. Almost as soon as we would arrive we would find a pail or bucket and head up the lane. 
The berries arched over a wide ditch that was always running water which irrigated the bushes and made for an abundance of the intensely flavored berries. Reaching across the ditch to pick the most delectable berries was risky. Most of us would only venture far enough to keep our balance and still be able to pick berries by the handful but an occasional tumble into the muddy ditch was inevitable. Some years berries hung in dark clusters from branches bent under the weight of hundreds of berries. Other years, when rain was not as plentiful, thorny branches stuck out over the fields as if grasping for nourishment and berries were small and fewer. But there were always more than enough berries for all. We would ooh and ahh over the crop. The most delicious were immediately popped into our mouths. Soon lips and fingers were stained with the sweetest juice and fingers became sore from being pricked over and over by thorns. But in no time the picking pails 
brimmed with berries destined to be made into pies, cobblers, and of course, jam and jelly. In years past, Grandma Louise Wright would don her worn, cotton apron (the one she didn't mind getting jelly stains on) and set to work washing berries and jars in preparation for making what we knew to be the best blackberry jelly and jam on earth. The berry pails were emptied into a colander, berries washed and picked over, then placed in a large kettle to crush. Removing seeds was optional but, to my taste, an important step. An old conical strainer with a mortar for pushing the berry juice and pulp through prepared the berries for jamming. We carefully mixed sugar, pectin, lemon juice and berries then heated the glossy mix until it bubbled and sputtered as it transformed into jam, filling the kitchen with the heavenly scent of sweet blackberries. The hot jam was then carefully ladled into clean jars, sealed, and labled with the year. The bits of jam left in the pot were quickly smeared onto pieces of bread and we savored every bite.
The berries arched over a wide ditch that was always running water which irrigated the bushes and made for an abundance of the intensely flavored berries. Reaching across the ditch to pick the most delectable berries was risky. Most of us would only venture far enough to keep our balance and still be able to pick berries by the handful but an occasional tumble into the muddy ditch was inevitable. Some years berries hung in dark clusters from branches bent under the weight of hundreds of berries. Other years, when rain was not as plentiful, thorny branches stuck out over the fields as if grasping for nourishment and berries were small and fewer. But there were always more than enough berries for all. We would ooh and ahh over the crop. The most delicious were immediately popped into our mouths. Soon lips and fingers were stained with the sweetest juice and fingers became sore from being pricked over and over by thorns. But in no time the picking pails 
brimmed with berries destined to be made into pies, cobblers, and of course, jam and jelly. In years past, Grandma Louise Wright would don her worn, cotton apron (the one she didn't mind getting jelly stains on) and set to work washing berries and jars in preparation for making what we knew to be the best blackberry jelly and jam on earth. The berry pails were emptied into a colander, berries washed and picked over, then placed in a large kettle to crush. Removing seeds was optional but, to my taste, an important step. An old conical strainer with a mortar for pushing the berry juice and pulp through prepared the berries for jamming. We carefully mixed sugar, pectin, lemon juice and berries then heated the glossy mix until it bubbled and sputtered as it transformed into jam, filling the kitchen with the heavenly scent of sweet blackberries. The hot jam was then carefully ladled into clean jars, sealed, and labled with the year. The bits of jam left in the pot were quickly smeared onto pieces of bread and we savored every bite. 
This week when we visited Grandpa Wright, it was only fitting that we pick blackberries and make jam. We missed having Grandma Louise there but as we picked, stirred, cooked and ladled blackberry jam I felt she would have been happy to know that her kitchen was still a place of sweet joy and happiness and that those memories of her, and the blackberry jam she made with us are preserved forever.
